


Bang

by Jinmukang



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Death Threats, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapped, Kidnapping, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic Attacks, Whump, Whumptober 2020, no.2, whumptober day 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinmukang/pseuds/Jinmukang
Summary: It's Damian's first time being kidnapped as a civilian. Too bad it also ends up being the most traumatizing.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946413
Comments: 31
Kudos: 225
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Bang

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Gem for beta-ing this fic! You're the best!!!
> 
> Now, onto round two!

There's the sound of people moving close by. Shuffling and mumbling amongst each other. It's grating on Damian's nerves. 

Not that he'll let them see that he's unnerved or anything close to it. It's just, well, he's currently tied to a chair with miles of duct tape around his wrists and ankles—connecting him to the arms and legs of the chair—and wearing a hood over his head to obscure his vision. And, there's also a slap of tape on his mouth to keep him somewhat gagged. 

He's been kidnapped. Off the streets like some hunted animal, into a van filled with people waving guns and shouting. The effects of the chloroform they used on him are still wearing off, making it so that even though he's been awake for quite awhile now, stuck in this room and restrained to a chair, he can still hardly find the strength to lift his head or summon the coordination in his fingers to test his bonds. 

Kidnapped. 

This is… his first time being kidnapped as Damian Wayne. Not as Robin. Not as an Al Ghul heir. 

Just: thirteen year old Damian Wayne.

And Damian had never believed Richard about how scary it was when the older man had explained to him what to do in case of abduction via civilian identity. Damian's starting to see it now. 

He's starting to understand now. 

And, admittedly, it is scary. More scary than any of his other identities. At least when he was kidnapped for his connections to his grandfather, the kidnappers knew how dangerous he was. And as Robin, there's no need to hold back. But as he is now… they want him as Bruce Wayne's tiny little son. 

So there's no slipping his binds, no glorious escapes with flying kicks and powerful punches. He can only sit here and be expected to whimper and cry like any other child hostage. He hasn't had any contact with the kidnappers yet, since waking up, but he can already tell it will be humiliating. 

But he will do it, because Richard told him to. It's how you keep safe in situations like this. You act weak like they expect you to be, and you don't make yourself anything close to a threat to them. 

The mumbling around him continues and Damian's head is still too muddled to pick the conversations apart. He's pretty sure he's heard ransom and Wayne a few times, so hopefully, this shouldn't take too long or be too traumatic. Damian knows there is no price his father wouldn't pay for him. 

Or at least… he thinks he knows. 

He quickly shoves that doubt to some corner of his hazy mind to focus on trying to fight past the lingering effects of chloroform. He doesn't remember much from the initial kidnapping, just chaos and yelling and not being able to breathe as he's dragged away, but they must have given him just a little too much. Feeling sick to your stomach is a common effect of the sedative, but Damian's been trained since his first memories to be able to have an immunity greater than most adults to these kinds of drugs. 

They must have given him too much. Must have. Because he can't bear the thought of finally getting weaker like his mother and grandfather always says he will if he spends too much time with his father and his family. 

Somehow without Damian having noticed anyone had come up to him, the fabric bag over his head is ripped off, adulting his sensitive eyes with light too bright for him to meet straight on. He lets his first instincts run, the ones that don't make him force back whimpers and flinches to put on a show that he's more mature than what his age may imply. He cringes away from the light, squeezing his eyes shut, but then the bag of his head is grabbed and calloused fingers dig into his cheek, tugging the tape off his mouth in one huge rip. Tears sting his eyes as his entire mouth goes numb. He's pretty sure the tape took skin from his lips with it, causing the metallic taste of blood to enter his mouth.

Before he can try to even recover from that, something is pressed against his ear. He thinks he hears something like his name being called out to him, but everything is so fuzzy and far away.

It's a slap to the cheek that gets the fog to clear a little. The first thing he hears is the sound of his father yelling to not hurt Damian. 

Father. The thing pressed against his ear. A phone. 

Ransom. 

Proof of life. 

"Say hi ta daddy," a man's voice says, his voice tight and angry like he's had to repeat himself multiple times. He probably has had to. 

Slowly, Damian takes a deep breath, fighting the fog that is already beginning to creep back in. He tries to open his eyes, but the light is so bright. It's all he can do to open his mouth and say "f'ther…"

But apparently, that's enough for the kidnappers, because the phone is ripped from his ear and a hand slaps another piece of tape over his mouth, replacing the bag immediately after. 

Damian huffs, quickly becoming annoying of being restrained, blinded, and silenced like this. Quickly beginning to very much dislike the lingering effects of drugs. Everything is so far away and muted, but so overwhelming at the same time. It makes something tighten in his chest as the kidnapper (kidnappers, right? There are multiple? There's multiple voices in the room…) speaks to Damian's father with tight, angry, and overly confident words. 

"And I want the money by midnight tonight, or else you're never seein' the brat alive again," the man says. How far away is midnight? How long does Damian's father have to gather the ransom? (And… how much is it? How much is Damian worth? No, no that doesn't matter. Father will pay any price).

The call must end after that, because a short time later, Damian feels a rough hand grab the top sections of his hair through the bag. Damian's now very much aware of a presence right in front of him. The nauseating smell of cigarettes assaults his sensitive senses. 

"You're goin' ta sit here and not make a sound, yeah?" The man says, the same one who was talking to his father. Damian can recognize him by his unique accent, which is lazy. If you're going to kidnap someone, at least copy the accent of the area the person lives in. That way, the victim won't be able to predict where you come from and narrow down your identity and… and how drugged is he? Criticizing the tactics the kidnapper has used to kidnap him? Get it together Damian. "Cooperate, and no unnecessary harm will come ta ya, kay?"

He doesn't wait for Damian to even attempt to try and answer, because with a rough shove, Damian's head is forced down so his chin hits his chest. 

His head spins at the sudden movement, and it takes him way too long to realize the voices have shifted around him. Fading in and out until Damian manages to crawl back to awareness and realize everything is silent now. 

No movement. No talking. 

Nothing. 

Just the sounds of his own breathing and the freaking of the chair he's tied to every time he shifts. 

He focuses on that silence. On the internal noises. Meditating until the traitorous feeling in his stomach begins to settle—until the muffled feeling in his brain begins to clear. 

He flexes his hand, scowling at the numb feeling that still lingers in the joints of each finger. He wonders slightly if it's because of the ever-persistent after-effects of drugs or if it's because the tape is so tight it's cutting off circulation. 

He slowly works his sluggish fingers into a fist, then he tugs on the tape. He feels weaker than a newborn kitten, but judging on how there's a bump in the groove of the wood near his left wrist that hasn't shifted at all with his tugging, the tape is definitely tight. 

Damian released a breath through his nose, deciding to now risk opening his eyes. He doesn't see much, just vague lights shining through the pitiful thread count of the bag, but that's not all bad. With the holes between each woven fiber of fabric shining through with light, he'd be able to see vague forms of people and things around him. 

There's nothing. Just light. Nothing moves, nothing changes. 

Damian must be alone in the room. 

He curls his fingers, picking at whatever tape that's in his reach, trying to decide where he needs to go from here. 

He could force himself to disregard the nausea swimming in his body and lean forward to grab the hood with one of his tapped hands, then rip the tape off his mouth, then chew the edges of tape around his wrists until he manages to get it loose enough to slip through. He'd then free his other arm and his two legs, stand up, and break the legs of this creaky chair to have a blunt force weapon. Then, using the walls as support until the adrenaline kicks in, he'll leave the room he's trapped in and find a way hopefully unnoticed. If he is noticed, well, that's what the chair leg and the adrenalin is for. 

Damian is a skilled warrior. He was trained by the best of the best, the most deadly of the deadly. He knows how to kill a man so many ways it's impossible to really narrow down to numbers. 

He'll take down his kidnappers, leave the building, then find the closest road. Hail a car. Ask for a phone. Call father and ask to be picked up and for an ambulance; not for him of course but for the men and women he left drooling on the floor behind him.

It would be spectacular. A daring escape that these buffoons wouldn't expect. A tale to be praised and retold. 

Or he could sit here, pretending to be a frightened, privileged rich thirteen year old boy like they think he is. Like what Richard told him to be. 

Don't make yourself a target. Be what they expect you to be, and wait for me to find you. Don't out yourself unless you absolutely need to. Life or death, Damian. Promise me.

Damian promised. Unless he was in an immediate threat to his life or physical well being, he has to keep up the act. 

That was when Richard was Batman. And even though father is back, Damian can guess the same rules stay in place. Richard was raised by his father, after all, and he has the family record of most civilian abductions. 

Which also means he has the record of most civilian abductions survived.

But… technically his life is being threatened. If father doesn't pay the ransom, they'll kill Damian. Or so they say. But... but father will pay. Damian shouldn't have to be worried. In fact, he isn't worried. All he needs to do is sit tight and wait for this all to be over. They said midnight tonight. Yes, that could mean a minute of waiting here or a full twenty four hours, but that's fine. 

Father will come.

Batman will come if it so demands. He always does. 

(Except for when he doesn't).

And maybe it's the fuzziness still in his brain. Maybe it's the weak limbs or the confusing situation or the half-formed memories that won't let him remember what he was doing walking out in the city to be kidnapped in the first place. 

But that thought… the thought that maybe father won't come… it sticks in there. No matter how hard he tries to shove it away.

Because what if… father doesn't come? If he were in his right mind, this train of thought wouldn't even cross his mind. 

But now it's all he can think about. 

Because Damian… and his father... do not have the best relationship. Being Robin hasn't been the same since he came back. Living in the manor hasn't been the same. There's so many arguments in each other's presence, so many tense interactions that has Damian not even bothering to go downstairs from his room unless he needed to eat. Father is always angry and distrustful with Damian, like he's waiting for Damian to slip up and ruin something. Kill someone. 

Damian is Bruce Wayne's biological son.

But he's also the only child he didn't choose. 

What if… what if he uses this as an opportunity to finally be rid of Damian? Let the kidnappers off him and then wipe his hands clean, saying there was nothing he could have done. No one would mourn him, except maybe Richard. But everyone else, especially Timothy…

He's shoving down the urge to throw up and bending down to start trying to escape before he knows it because it feels like such a fact that everyone wants him gone… but Damian doesn't want to be. He's already died once, and he promised himself that he'll get better. He won't go back down to hell. He'll make things right. He'll be normal, and kind, and gentle. He just needs a little more time to fix himself. Time that can't be taken away from him now.

It takes a few tries, tries that have his wrists straining against his binds, to get the hood off his face. He squeezes his eyes shut at the assaulting light, but forces them open again to get a read on his situation. Blinking tears from his eyes, he studies the room he's placed in the center of. Well, it can't be called much of a room, it's more like a small, square storage closet, one that—judging by the flattened carpet near his feet—recently had things moved out of it to make room for Damian. The walls are an ugly yellow color that would have Alfred the Butler wrinkling his nose to, especially if he saw the dark wooden baseboards. There's a door immediately in front of Damian, and the knob doesn't look like it has a lock. They must have faith in the binds they've put Damian in to place him in a room that doesn't lock.

They're going to regret that. 

Still squinting his eyes, Damian bends forward again and twists his wrists raw against the tape in an attempt to reach the strip on his mouth. It isn't as difficult to do this time because he can see now, even if his sight is limited thanks to the persistent blurriness and sensitivity that comes from the lingering effects of chloroform. The feeling of the tape leaving his cheeks and mouth is sharp and painful, and he tastes more blood enter his mouth at the action thanks to various sections of his chapped lips deciding they'd rather stick with the tape. 

Now that that's over, Damian moves his free mouth to his wrists, trying to lash his teeth to the cut end of the tape. The tape on his left wrist ends near the joint of his thumb, which he figures will be easier to get to than the where it's located on his right wrist: under the chair arm. It takes a few tries, but he eventually manages to dig his lower teeth under the end and begin the process of unraveling. He clenches his teeth, then jerks to the side, the tape following the motion. 

He forces it as far as he can bend within his trapped position—and thankfully, by the time where contorting like this begins to become painful, the bit of tape is long enough for his fingers to grab if he strains against the bindings. 

It takes a short amount of time for the plastic to reach a point where he can grab at with his teeth again, and he's in the process of doing so when he suddenly hears voices on the other side of the door. 

He freezes for a second, heart fluttering up to his throat, and immediately begins to try and listen to the muffled voices. 

"Three million," a woman's voice says, her tone in a whispered sigh. "Can you actually believe that the kid in there is worth three million."

The number is so shocking that Damian almost misses what is said next by a man's voice this time. Though, it's different from the man who made the ransom call. 

"Oh, I can. Wayne is up to his balls in money. I'm sure he's spent more on whores."

No. No that is not true. Three million? 

That's... That's...

The door suddenly opens and Damian realizes he's accidentally fallen still while listening to the conversation. It's comedic, almost, how the woman stops in her tracks after opening the door, a man behind her looking shocked with his mouth open. 

Then, the woman rushes forward and wraps one hand around Damian's halfway freed wrist and then bunches a chunk of hair in her other, forcing him away so his back slams into the back of the chair. He bites off a cry at the harsh movement. He's failed. He's gotten caught. Pathetic. 

Weak.

"Don't just stand there, you idiot," the woman practically screeches towards the man, "go get Dee!"

The man nods, then turns tail out of the room in what could possibly be a sprint. 

The woman snarls under her breath, tightening her grip so it's harsher than what the tape initially was. "You shit," she hisses. "How'd you get this far?!"

"The money," Damian says instead of answering her questions. "You're not going to get it. It's impossible."

Her grip tightens. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"My father doesn't have that much money just... Just sitting around. It takes time to get that much money. More than twenty four hours."

"Don't bullshit me, brat," the woman hisses, her voice just barely a little louder than the distant sound of approaching footsteps. Angry footsteps. "I've seen the numbers. He donated more than that to the fucking water plant just a bit ago."

"It's true. That money, he had already been saving up and setting aside months prior. And the rest of his money he has in stocks- or on the way to charities or into the funds meant to financially support Batman and the Justice League-" Damian cuts off with a wince as her fingers tighten. Her grip is grinding on his ulna and radius. "There's no way you're getting the money. You have to give him more time- or let me g-"

"Are ya insane?!" A newcomer shouts. Damian almost flinches at the noise. Here he is. The ransom call man. 

He must be in charge of this dumpster fire of a kidnapping. 

Damian flicks his eyes away from the woman still holding him towards the man. He looks… normal. For a white American man. Medium build, barely any neck, dirty brown hair and black framed glasses that aren't shaped like anything exciting. 

It's then that Damian realizes that none of them are wearing masks. 

There's only one reason why an abductor wouldn't wear a mask or cover their face in some way.

They don't intend on letting the victim leave. 

Or maybe, this man is the only one that doesn't intend to see Damian go. Maybe the others are all naive enough to follow his every order and get there cut of three million. Whatever the case, the look in the man's pale eyes are furious, his lips turned down into his five o'clock shadow. 

"I don't know how this happened, D-"

"Don't use names!" The man screeches, walking forward with his finger held towards her like it was a wand casting a horrible spell. "Get the tape! Tie him back up, and someone get me the chloroform."

"The chloroform, boss?" The other man, the one who had been talking with the woman earlier, asks. Damian remains stiff and antsy as the woman finally lets him go to grab a roll of tape which just happened to be on the floor and Damian hadn't noticed. "So soon? But, isn't that dangerous-?"

"What does it matter?!" Dee snarls, causing the other man to quickly walk back out of the room like a dog with its tail shamefully tucked between its legs.

There's the sound of duct-tape being unwound, the noise cutting through the air like a swinging sword. 

"So your plan is to bleed my father dry of everything he has," Damian hisses towards the man as the woman begins to re-wrap his wrist to the chair, "and then kill me anyway when he can't get you everything."

And maybe Damian shouldn't be gibing at the already livid man. He realizes this when red fills his face as he stomps forward, shoving the woman out of the way to wrap Damian's wrist the rest of the way up, and then takes a separate strip and practically slaps it onto Damian's mouth. 

"I told ya not ta try anythin'," the man snarls when Damian glares at him. He doesn't back down at the glare either, even though Damian made it as intense as he possibly could. A "batglare" as Richard so lovingly puts it. Except most bat leveled glares are depleted by the lack of mask and milky eyes. "I told ya you'll get hurt if you do."

Damian's heartbeat kicks in and he jerks in his restraints when the man moves his hand towards one of Damian's trapped ones, digging through Damian's clenched fist until he grabs the middle digit and starts bending it backwards. 

Damian does his best to free his finger and bend it back down, but unfortunately, the finger strength of a thirteen year old is destined to always be weaker than a full grown man. He prepares himself for the pain before it hits, oftentimes, broken fingers are more shocking and painful than one expects. 

When the sickening snap hits the air, Damian's left with a split second decision to bite off his grunt or verbally shout. It's painful. Definitely painful enough to warrant a shout. Richard has always told him to go with his first instincts when kidnapped in a civilian's identity. 

But this man wants to kill Damian. He had been planning to kill Damian all along, judging by his lack of surprise or confusion when Damian called him out. 

This man will kill Damian in less than a day's time. Perhaps exactly at midnight. 

Damian doesn't shout. This man doesn't deserve to feel more powerful. He doesn't deserve to let Damian play into his hands. If he's going to kill Damian anyway, he should at least be honest about it! He hates Americans and their sleazy ways, always hiding behind secrets and double meanings. If Damian were back with Grandfather, no one there would lie about desiring Damian's death. 

So he doesn't shout like he wants to. Just grunts and pants through his nose as his finger is released, a pulse in it that's in time with his heart, making the hurting practically vibrate in intensity. 

He can barely contain his shouting when the man begins to add more duct-tape to his wrists, wrapping his hands down so they're flat to the arms of the chair. There will be no using his fingers to try and escape now. They're pinned, and all Damian can do is continue to glare; taking deep breaths through his nose, and ignoring how the pressure of the tape on his broken finger presses down with horribly sharp pins and needles. 

The other man returns now, holding a brown tinted glass bottle that looks like it should contain iodine of something similar. 

But it doesn't. That fact is clear enough when the bottle and a rag is handed to the leader. 

Damian really isn't looking forward to this one. 

He wonders slightly, as he watches the man pour some of the substance onto the cloth and tries to jolt his head away from grabbing hands, if he'll be awake when midnight comes. If these are his last moments alive. There's no hope to escape now. 

Stupid. He should have ignored the rules earlier on and just escaped. Disregarded being a typical and normal child. It's not like being a normal child had ever done him any good. It always just gets him hurt, even if for a while he truly feels comfortable in his own skin being a child. It's safer to be jaded and angry and full of killer's instinct. Things like this don't happen to Damian Al Ghul.

Eventually, the hands in his hair win and the cloth presses over his nose. Immediately, a suffocating chemical reek hits his nostrils. He writhes in the grips, terror and panic beginning to slip into his chest cavity. 

Ever so slowly, he can feel the chloroform weakening him. He tries to not breathe in, but he also knows that they're not letting go until he's unconscious. Might as well finish this already. Let it end. 

Let Damian Wayne end.

His fingers and toes tingle. It's painful. And scary. And he… he wants to cry. 

But he doesn't, because nothing on his body is his own anymore. His eyes slip shut and unconsciousness is winding it's cold embrace around him, consciousness becoming similar to the fine sands of his home country. Thin, fine, and slipping away. 

The cloth leaves his face, as do the hands in his hair, and his chin hits his chest. 

-o-o-o-o-

Voices. There are voices. In front of him, behind him. Everywhere. His stomach rolls and his sinuses feel like he's been stuffed full with cotton. He gags, trying to open his mouth but something keeps it shut. Vaguely, this feeling becomes oddly familiar. The intense urge to vomit, the tape over his mouth, the aches and pains that reside between every cell of his body. 

His brain is a million miles away, floating in the strong currents of the sky, out of reach but trying to take Damian with it. 

There's a shout. It echoes in his ears. It makes him flinch. 

Flinch from what? He doesn't know. All he knows is that he's confused and in a numb agony that makes him want to curl up and not exist. 

Light attacks his senses. Sounds echo and stab. He cringes away, squeezing his eyes shut, but a hand falls into his shoulder, spending shards of glass down his spine. 

This hand… it's dangerous. Unfriendly. An enemy. 

He forces his eyes open against the crusty gunk that's trying to keep his eyes shut. Everything is a swirl of blurry shapes and figures moving in front of a splash of ugly yellow. There's one blob, in particular, that's right beside him. 

Damian doesn't like this man. Why does he not like this man? 

Why can't he open his mouth? Why can't he move? His finger hurts. He needs to throw up. 

"Where's the rest of my money, Wayne?!" The man screeches, causing Damian to wince and try to retreat from the grating voice. It doesn't work though. The hand on his shoulder is strong, along with whatever is keeping him sitting in the chair. 

Duct-tape, his mind sluggishly supplies. 

Duct-tape. He's been… kidnapped. Ransom. The money... too high… impossible…

"I told ya, if I don't get my money I'll kill the kid!"

Die. Damian's going to die. 

He writhes weakly in his bonds, his muscles no stronger than paper. He doesn't… he can't...

"I'll get you the money!" A new voice says, one that's muffled by the speakers of a cell phone. Worried. Anxious. Deep. Father. "I just need more t-"

"I gave ya enough time already," the man sneers, fingers curling into Damian's collarbone. 

"I'll get you more than three million if you just give me time! A few more days, that's all I need t-"

Something hard and cold is pressed against Damian's head. Damian closes his eyes, doing his best not to flinch as the safety is loudly clicked off. 

"Ya didn't meet the requirements, Wayne. Now, yer goin' ta pay fer that."

Scared. 

Damian is scared. He doesn't… he's hopeless. He wants to cry. He wants to throw up.

He wants to go home. 

Damian's father yells angrily over the phone. Desperately. It almost sounds like… he actually cares. Like Damian dying will affect him just as much as any other of his chosen children dying. 

Damian's died before. 

But that was before he and father had spent this much time together. This much time to learn what they like and dislike about each other. When father saved him, he was saving a boy he thought had potential, similar to how Richard gave Damian Robin because he thought he had potential. Potential to be good. 

Damian always messes things up. Especially when those things involve being good. Perhaps, this time, when life leaves him, father won't feel guilty about it. Richard won't be depressed about it. Timothy could have Robin back. Jason would have a bullet point on his list of reasons to not visit the manor knocked off. Duke and Cassandra won't be burdened with his prickly personality. Hell, maybe even Stephanie will be better off without Damian this time around. 

Suddenly, there's a loud bang, and Damian is immediately sure he's dead. In a haze of panic and fear and terror, Damian's barely aware of the crashing that follows the bang, nor does he pay much attention to the sharp boom which was much louder than the first one.

All he can think about is that he's dead again. He's dead and he doesn't want to be. He doesn't want to go back to Hell. He promised himself he'd be better. He promised himself he'd be the boy father wanted him to be, the boy Richard believed he could be. 

He doesn't want to be dead again. But he's dead again. 

He's dead and there's nothing he can do about it now besides mourn his own life, because he knows no one else will. There will be a funeral, but it will be a formality. There will be revenge, but it will only be because the people who killed him are criminals and deserve to be put behind bars. 

Not because they loathe them for taking Damian's life. 

Tears slip through his dead eyes. His dead chest rattles with sharp, dead gasps. 

He's dead. He's dead. Dead dead dead dead dead-

"got you-" a far away voice whispers. "Feel that? I'm breathing, you need to too, Dami-"

Expanding. A warm body under his cold, dead, fingers. Going in and out, and Damian subconsciously begins to try and copy that. Breathing. Something that doesn't belong to him anymore. 

But he tries. 

"There we go," the voice says, "you're going great!"

Is he? Is he breathing correctly? A thing only the living can do? 

He gasps, his lungs shaking with each breath he tries to copy. The voice encourages him until Damian's able to keep breathing on his own. Until he opens his eyes and sees a familiar face with bright blue eyes, a body wearing a black suit with a splash of blue right where Damian's freed hand is pressed against.

Around them is a mess of unconscious bodies, all restrained with zip ties and cuffs. It's horribly difficult to focus, but things are so much sharper than what they were the last time he had his eyes open. He can see a second familiar face, picking through the mess of unconscious bodies as if looking for something. It's Timothy.

Richard smiles at him. "See? I have you. You're okay-"

And Damian launches himself forward, hardly even remembering that last he remembers he was restrained to the chair. They must have cut him loose. But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter because Richard immediately winds his arms around Damian, careful of his broken finger, and begins whispering comforts so soft and genuine that Damian… Damian feels heat gather in his eyes. 

Besides them, Timothy finds what he was looking for, quickly putting the cellphone the leader had been using to his ear. "It's okay, Mr Wayne, Nightwing and Red Robin found him. He's safe."

Safe. Alive. Damian's alive. He curls his good fingers into Richard's suit, his chest heaving from sobs that want to tear out. He didn't die. The drugs and stress made him think he did. Richard and Timothy came and saved him. Dragged him out of a panic attack, and are going to take him home. 

Home. Where father will hover like a worried mother hen until he's sure Damian is alright. Where Richard will convince Alfred to make something high in carbs and sugar to comfort Damian. Where Timothy will invite him to play video games with him to give silent support. Where Cassandra will give the best hug and whisper that she's glad he's okay. Where Duke will talk with him until his sides hurt from laughing. Where Jason will visit and ruffle his hair and grumble quietly that he's glad Damian isn't dead.

Home. 

He curls tighter into Richard's embrace. 

Home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!!
> 
> Like always, kudos, bookmarks, and COMMENTS, are much appreciated <3


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